“You shall read as much as you please by and
by,” said he, “provided you will let me
read with you; and as for the other want, Elfie, it
is rather a source of gratification to me.”
Elfie very naturally asked why?
“Because as soon as I have the power I shall
immediately constitute myself your master in the arts
of riding and drawing, and in any other art or acquisition
you may take a fancy to, and give you lessons diligently.”
“And will there be gratification in that?”
said Fleda.
His answer was by a smile. But he somewhat mischievously
asked her, “Will there not?”—and
Fleda was quiet.
Friends, I sorrow not to leave ye;
If this life an exile be,
We who leave it do but journey
Homeward to our family.
Spanish Ballad.
The first of April came.
Mr. Rossitur had made up his mind not to abide at
Queechy, which only held him now by the frail thread
of Hugh’s life. Mr. Carleton knew this,
and had even taken some steps towards securing for
him a situation in the West Indies. But it was
unknown to Fleda; she had not heard her uncle say
anything on the subject since she came home; and though
aware that their stay was a doubtful matter, she still
thought it might be as well to have the garden in
order. Philetus could not be trusted to do everything
wisely of his own head, and even some delicate jobs
of hand could not be safely left to his skill; if
the garden was to make any headway Fleda’s head
and hand must both be there, she knew. So as
the spring opened she used to steal away from the
house every morning for an hour or two, hardly letting
her friends know what she was about, to make sure that
peas and potatoes and radishes and lettuce were in
the right places at the right times, and to see that
the later and more delicate vegetables were preparing
for. She took care to have this business well
over before the time that Mr. Carleton ever arrived
from the Pool.
One morning she was busy in dressing the strawberry
beds, forking up the ground between the plants and
filling the vacancies that the severe winter or some
irregularities of fall dressing had made. Mr.
Skillcorn was rendering a somewhat inefficient help,
or perhaps amusing himself with seeing how she worked.
The little old silver-grey hood was bending down over
the strawberries, and the fork was going at a very
energetic rate.
“Philetus—”
“Marm!”
“Will you bring me that bunch of strawberry
plants that lies at the corner of the beds, in the
walk?—and my trowel?”
“I will!—” said Mr. Skillcorn.
It was another hand however that brought them and
laid them beside her; but Fleda very intent upon her
work and hidden under her close hood did not find
it out. She went on busily putting in the plants
as she found room for them, and just conscious, as
she thought, that Philetus was still standing at her
side she called upon him from time to time, or merely
stretched out her hand, for a fresh plant as she had
occasion for it.
